Wednesday, March 31, 2010

crazy like spring (yellow)

spring makes me think of daffodils, tree houses and crazy people.

on the corner of my parents yard, where the gravel road turns to make its loop back toward the grave yard, there sat a pile of large random stones. one was a concrete ball with about 3 inches of rebar sticking out of it that i imagine adorned a wall at some point. green moss filled in the spaces on its rough skin; rust giving character as it spread into the stone from the base of the rebar.

it was beside this pile of stone that we built our tree house.

our dad did most of the work, building the deck, attaching the walls, even shingling the roof. but we got to paint it, using cans of left over paint from the corner of the garage and old soft bristle paint brushes. white was what we had most of and so white became our tree house, slowly between stoppages to rinse paint out of our eyes, from our haphazard painting.

as we painted, my sister sat on the stones, playing dolls in the dirt.

my heart, backfiring like a rusty muffler, sent goose flesh in waves to the shores of my arms, when i heard her scream. eyes rolling back into her head, spittle stretching in rivulets from her mouth, my sister flailed around the yard...screaming...hitting herself...throwing herself on the ground. it was the most peculiar thing we had ever seen, of course this was before we saw brad pitt in 12 monkeys.

gesticulating like a puppet whose stings had become tangled, she pirouetted in the green grass.

grabbing her, my parents whisked her into the house, away from prying eyes. we heard their taught voices through the wood of the bathroom door, then water gushing into the tub drowned out her keening. paint dried tight on our fingertips, as we sat in the hall, our backs pressed against the wall, waiting.

the door opened, eyes swollen, her body still shaking, wrapped in a green towel, my sister made her way to the couch, leaving hundreds of twitching ants drifting toward the metal drain.

the tree house is long gone now, the stones haunt some rubbish pile, and in their place grow yellow daffodils. the warmth of my coffee cup leaks into my fingers as i watch spring unfold, knowing the ants find each of us at times and at first glance we may seem crazy, until someone stops to care.

Gosh, I wish I'd left it until tomorrow to read this.........Reminds me of a yellow dress covered, COVERED, in black flies.... fortunately not ants but devastating nevertheless since I was wearing the dress at the time.

I, like a few of your other readers, thought that your sister must have been having some kind of seizure. That was good Brian..not for your sister though.I have an ant story too...it involves my great uncle, up a ladder, collecting mangoes off a mango tree. Whilst up the ladder a nest of green ants falls on him. Let me put it this way...I have never heard so many expletives come from a gentleman's mouth before, I didn't even think he would know of such words. He also did a striptease on my Grandmothers lawn...that was rather scary too!

OMG! At first I started to think about how much I wanted a tree house when I was little, but then I could only think about how traumatized you must have all been by this experience! Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it!

Hello,I am glad that you spring back to blogging with a tale of spring memory. I can picture you sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, and after your sister came out,leaving hundreds of twitching ants drifting toward the metal drain...

This reminds me of the first summer we moved to South Carolina and we didn't know about red fire ants. My son built a fort in the woods. The ants crawled in his shorts and bit him everywhere...and I mean EVERYWHERE! It was awful.

Laughed as you sent me back in time with your imagery. At the time we were so busy getting the ants off of Sissy that we couldn't stand back and see the big picture. Thirty years later the picture is delightful as told through your big brother eyes.

Your recreation of the whole event makes it seem much more comical then it was and from the outside looking in I'm sure I looked very silly...wonder why I wasn't painting too though? You probably banished me from the project!

what i love about your writing Brian is the way you weave a story. small details painted vividly, an occurance that sends your heart pounding, then the conclusion--awhhhh, but it doesn't end there. you've tucked inside your weave something much deeper, this time you disclosed it, sometimes you don't. i have no doubt you are one of the special ones who cares enough to dig a little deeper for the true discovery.

I was attacked by ants when I was very little. I used to dream that a man would come into my room with a basket of red ants and he'd try to put them in my ears at night so all of my childhood I slept with the covers over my ears.

I told my mom about the dreams when I was about 21 and she told me about the ant attack when I was a toddler and I never had the dreams again.

I found you listed on Jingle's page. We have never met, but I am here to congratulate you and to say that I your blog here is awesome. Well done indeed. I also write a few things and if you get time I invite you to read my page. Best wishes, Brian. I would like to add you to my blogroll but want to know if this is ok with you? :)JohnPoet Travelerhttp://poettraveler.wordpress.com/

This was scary. I love your anecdotes that even evolve as poetry. It must have been very painful to your sister. Good that your parents were there at that time.Good to see you back with your great stories and verses.